


A Good Plan

by vampireisthenewblack



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Masturbation, Red Hoodie, Scenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 08:28:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampireisthenewblack/pseuds/vampireisthenewblack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Derek steals Stiles' clothing for sexual gratification and Stiles has a plan. A good plan. With maps*, and condoms.</p><p>*There's no maps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Plan

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, this was supposed to be under 1k. It's not.
> 
> Love and eternal hugs and kisses to my one, my only, my [venis-envy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/venis_envy). She beta'd. She's awesome.

"You totally told him, didn't you?"

Scott's eyes are wide, the picture of innocence, but they flick upward, just once. "I didn't. I swear I did not say a single word to Derek."

Stiles shifts from foot to foot, shakes his hands just to stop himself from strangling his best friend. "Then how come he's looking at me funny? Like, all the time now? I should never have told you, oh, god. I said, I knew I'd regret this, last time I'm getting drunk with you, Scott, he _knows_ and—"

"Calm down." Scott grabs him by the shoulders, gives Stiles a shake as he laughs. "I didn't tell Derek, okay."

Stiles blinks. "Then why—"

"I might have said something to Isaac."

" _You what_?" Stiles can't believe it. He trusted Scott with that information, and sure, his inhibitions were seriously impaired when he confessed that he sometimes jerked off to thoughts of Derek goddamn Hale, but he trusted Scott not to betray that confidence. "Why would you do that? Why, exactly, would you do that?"

"Isaac asked if you were staying over sometimes."

Stiles freezes. "Staying over where?"

Scott grins. "At Derek's. In his room. In his _bed_."

Stiles looks at Scott like he's completely lost his mind. "Why on earth would he think... I don't... Huh?"

Scott crosses his room and reaches under his bed, pulls out a rolled wad of red fabric.

Stiles gasps. "My hoodie? I've been looking for that." He narrows his eyes. "Did you steal this?"

"Isaac found it. In Derek's bed." Scott looks far too pleased with himself. "Are you and Derek—"

"No! I've never been near Derek's bed. I don't know how it got there. He must have stolen it." Stiles' eyes go wide. "Oh my god. Derek's totally into me." He shoves the garment in Scott's face. "What does it smell like? Has he been having sex with my clothing?"

Scott shoves it away. "Too late. Isaac and I already figured it out. We just didn't know if you were in it at the time or not."

"Oh my god," Stiles whispers.

~v~

Stiles has a plan. It's a good plan, involving him sneaking his hoodie back into Derek's bed.

While he's wearing it.

Scott and Isaac are instrumental in luring Derek away from the house with promises of monsters in the main street (it's been ridiculously quiet, supernatural wise, in Beacon Hills lately).

It still seems like a good plan, until Stiles kicks his shoes off, climbs in under the covers, hoodie, jeans and all, and his phone rings once.

It's the signal. Scott's letting him know that Derek is on his way back to the house.

Suddenly, it all seems just a little too real. Derek's going to arrive, already pissed because there are no monsters, and he's going to rip Stiles a new one for breaking into his house, or...

Stiles is in Derek's bed. That kind of implies things that Stiles has no experience with. No one can say Stiles isn't prepared for what might happen because there's condoms and lube in his jeans pocket, but that sort of implies something Stiles might not be ready for, either.

"I'm insane," he says, throwing off the blankets, preparing to abort the mission.

Derek's car pulls up outside.

Stiles leaps out of Derek's bed, fights with his hoodie as he tries to tear it off but it's clinging to his arms like a killer octopus as he barrels down the stairs. He gets it off, bundles it up and shoves it behind him as he lunges for the front door.

Derek throws it open before Stiles can reach it.

Stiles stumbles back, shrinking under the weight of Derek's scowl.

"What the hell are you doing in my house, Stiles?"

"That's... That's a very good question," Stiles says, coming up with nothing good. "I'm sure there's a good answer." He inches toward the door. "How 'bout I text you when it comes to me?"

Derek grabs him by the shoulder and slams him into the wall. The breath rushes out of him, and the force makes him release his grip on the hoodie. It falls to the floor, and Derek's eyes flick downward.

Derek steps back, releasing Stiles, and his gaze moves up again. The thunderous expression is gone, replaced with something Stiles has never seen on Derek's face.

"I can explain," Derek says.

"You were practising your sniffer dog skills?"

Derek drops his eyes. Shakes his head. "No." He bends, scoops up the red garment, hands it back to Stiles. "You've been in my bedroom."

"You've been in mine. The difference is, I wasn't taking things that don't belong to me."

Derek's eyes start to redden, and Stiles is afraid he's about to wolf out. He takes a step back, hits the wall, looks away for a moment and then, when he looks back up, Derek's trying to hide his eyes.

"Just give me a head start, let me get out of town before you tell your father."

"What? Why would you leave? Why the hell would I tell my dad?"

Derek looks at Stiles like he's lost his mind. "You're seventeen and I'm stealing your clothes so my bed smells of you when I—"

"Jerk off?"

Derek looks as though he's going to throw up. "Oh my god."

"Yeah," Stiles agrees, imagining it. He can feel his own heart beating faster, and he can't seem to get enough air. His jeans are getting uncomfortably tight. "You should totally make it up to me."

Derek looks worried. "How?"

"Well," says Stiles, dragging his eyes over Derek's body as he thinks. Then he realises it's obvious. "You took my shirt, I should totally take yours."

"Why the hell would you want my shirt?"

"Why did you want mine?"

Derek stares at Stiles for a long time, like he's having trouble processing that. Then finally, he says one word. "Oh."

"Yeah. Hand it over."

Derek straightens up, then he shrugs off his jacket, lets it fall to the floor behind him, and he peels off his white T-shirt.

Stiles takes it, brings it to his face and inhales, long and deep. "Holy crap," he moans as his senses are assaulted by the scent of laundry detergent and _Derek_. His dick is immediately and painfully hard.

"So, you're going to... take that home and... you're going to... Huh." Derek's own breathing is quick and labored. "In _your_ bed." He groans. "You should go then."

Stiles pulls Derek's shirt away from his face. "Actually, I thought I might use yours. If that's okay with you?" Screw implications. Stiles needs to get off _now_.

Derek stares at him and blinks.

"I mean, you're totally welcome to come, too."

Derek blinks again, just once. "Yeah." He grabs Stiles by the upper arm and drags him toward the stairs.

Stiles pulls away and runs up the stairs ahead of Derek.

"Stiles, where are your shoes?"

"Under your bed. I had a plan. It was a good plan, but I chickened out. I'm over that now." He dives onto Derek's bed, rolls onto his back and fumbles to wriggle out of his jeans. Derek pulls Stiles' socks off by the toes, grabs his jeans by the hems, yanks them off his legs. As he's tossing them aside, something falls out of the hip pocket.

Stiles watches in horror as two condoms and a small tube of lubricant fall to the floor. "Oh, crap."

Derek looks up at Stiles. "That part of your plan?"

"Plans can change," Stiles stammers. "I can think on my feet."

Derek takes a step toward the bed. "You're not on your feet." He toes off his own shoes, and his hands drift over the front of his jeans, like he wants to take them off, but he leaves them fastened.

"No, and granted, right now most of my brain function is in my dick." Stiles rubs his hand over the length of his cock, straining against the fabric of his boxer briefs. He stares at Derek, eyes at the level of his hips. There's a suspiciously large outline in the front of his jeans, and Stiles swallows. His mouth is dry.

"What do you want, Stiles?"

"Everything," Stiles breathes, then his eyes flick up to Derek's face. "But I'm kinda freaking out because I've never done _anything_ before, so—"

"You've never jerked off before?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Of course I have. All the time. More than once a day. Sometimes three."

Derek lifts his eyebrows, his nostrils flare. "Do that, then." His eyes move down Stiles' body. "Take off your shirt."

"Oh, god." Stiles squirms, fights to get his shirt off, tosses it over the edge of the bed, then lies back down and rubs his palm over his dick again. "I've never had anyone watch me before."

"Please," Derek breathes. His chest rises, falls, the movement exaggerated.

Stiles' eyes go very wide. In his processing of the fact that Derek was into him, he never really thought about the reality of what it might be like to see Derek aroused. All Stiles thought about was the possibility of being able to touch Derek without risking decapitation, to be able to see Derek naked, to touch his cock—Stiles groans just thinking about it. But Derek's affected, he's looking at Stiles like he wants to eat him alive—but in a good way—and he's begging Stiles to jerk off for him. "Yeah, okay." Stiles shoves his hand into his briefs, pulls on his dick a few times before he pushes the waistband down so Derek can see.

Derek lets out a long, slow, jerky breath. "Stiles," he says, almost whines, and he slides his palm down over the front of his jeans.

"Take 'em off," Stiles gasps, squeezing his hand tight around his dick as he strokes up, down, circles the base with thumb and forefinger, drapes the other three fingers over his balls and gives them a little squeeze. "I wanna see."

Derek unzips his jeans. Pushes them down, kicks them off. He straightens up, clad in a pair of plain black boxer briefs that do nothing to hide the fact that he's incredibly hard, and, Stiles thinks, scarily well endowed.

Stiles' hand falters and his heels dig into the mattress in an unconscious effort to put just a little more distance between them. "Oh, my god, dude. You're huge." His eyes flick to the condoms lying on the floor. "Forget the plan. It was a bad plan."

"No," Derek says, taking a few jerky steps forward, hands outstretched. "Stiles, I'm not asking you to do anything you don't want to do. I don't give a shit about any plan, I just want... Jesus. This. Your scent in my bed." He crouches, lowering himself so he has to look up at Stiles, and he reaches out and puts his hand on Stiles' ankle. "To touch you a little. If you'll let me. Only as much as you want."

Stiles stares down, eyes wide, breath shaky and erratic, wondering if it's hard for Derek to lower himself like that in front of him, or if Derek's only doing it so his enormous cock is out of sight. "So I could just..." He wraps his hand around his cock, covering it from sight. "Roll around in your bed, rub off some skin cells?" His eyes linger on Derek's fingers, wrapped around his ankle. They're warm as they gently stroke back and forth. It's soothing, thoroughly incongruous with the way Derek usually touches him, and in his mind those fingers creep upward, tickling his knee, stroking his inner thigh. Stiles closes his eyes and moans, squeezes his dick, gives it a little stroke.

"I want you to come in my bed," Derek breathes, and his breath is warm.

It tickles Stiles' leg hair and inexplicably Stiles spreads his legs a little. "Make me," he whispers, eyes still closed, head hanging back. If he opens his eyes, he might chicken out again and he doesn't want to do that. He wants Derek to slide his hand up the inside of his thigh, he wants Derek to touch his balls, touch his cock, make him come.

"Stiles," Derek moans. "Fuck." His hand slides up a little as he rises, Stiles can feel him leaning over the bed. "I can touch you?"

Stiles cracks one eye open. "Unless you're planning on doing it with dirty talk alone, but I've heard you talk, and no offence, but you're not much with the words, you know?"

Stiles opens the other eye. Derek's frozen, eyebrows drawn together, lips slightly parted. "You can touch me," Stiles says, softly, kindly, because when Derek's vulnerable like this, he gets protective, and when did he start feeling like this?

Derek's knees press against the bed, dipping the mattress, and his hand slides up Stiles' leg. It rests on the inside of his knee, fingers sliding under, stroking.

Stiles squirms, ticklish. "If you could just..." He beckons, and Derek pushes his hand farther up Stiles' leg.

Derek cups the underside of Stiles' thigh. His eyes are locked onto Stiles' face, and his chest rises, falls as he takes deep, even breaths, then lowers his head, presses his lips to the inside of Stiles' thigh just above the knee.

"Oh, my god," Stiles moans, the words long, drawn out, one hand twisting in the blanket, the other clamping down on his dick as it twitches, hard. "This is happening. Oh god."

Derek moves up the bed, pushes on Stiles' leg, spreading it. He drops his head again, this time an open mouthed kiss with drag of tongue to the soft fleshy stretch of skin half way up Stiles' thigh. "Do you want me to stop?" he whispers, lips moving over Stiles' damp skin.

Stiles barely controls the violent jerk of his hips. The bed still rocks beneath them. "Hell, no. If you stop I _will_ have to kill you."

Derek grins against Stiles' skin, then his hands slide up over Stiles' hips, grab his underwear by the waist and tug. "Can I?"

"Yes, yes, completely, yes." Stiles lifts his hips to allow Derek to drag his underwear off. His hand is still on his cock, and he unfurls his fingers and puts both elbows on the mattress so he can prop himself up and watch the proceedings.

When Derek turns back after tossing Stiles' briefs on the floor, his eyes slowly wander up the length of Stiles' body. This time he spreads both of Stiles' legs, wrapping one arm underneath each of them. He lies between Stiles' thighs, closes his eyes, and puts his lips just below the crease.

Derek inhales and moans.

"What?" Stiles whimpers. He's tense, shaking with the effort it takes him not to push Derek's mouth towards his balls. He's so _close_.

"If you knew what you smelled like to me, Stiles..." Derek turns his head just enough, noses at Stiles' balls before opening his mouth, wrapping his lips around one, using his tongue to stroke, and it's so warm and wet and shivery-good and this is the first time that anything other than Stiles' own hand has touched him there and it's Derek's _mouth_.

Stiles thinks his brain might be seizing. Like, simply grinding to a halt as all the blood in his body rushes straight to his dick. Precome oozes thick from the tip onto his belly as Stiles' shudders and moans.

Derek takes his mouth away.

"No, oh god, fuck no, Derek please—"

But Derek's lifting himself again, moving further up the bed, and the sound that's coming from him is _not_ normal. The deep, rumbling groan vibrates through his chest, into Stiles' thighs where they've clamped around Derek's torso, and Derek is staring down at Stiles' cock.

Stiles knows what Derek's going to do before it happens, before Derek lowers his head again, before his eyes flick up for permission.

"Yes, holy crap, don't ask, just fucking do it—"

Derek drags his tongue through the fluid on Stiles' belly, catches the tip of Stiles' cock as he does it and Stiles is gone, just gone, no blood left in his brain at all, he'll probably suffer brain damage because of it but he doesn't care.

Derek sucks the head of Stiles' cock into his mouth, prods at the slit with his tongue.

"I can't— Oh my god— Derek, god, Derek," Stiles manages to get out before he comes, and then all that escapes his mouth is a choking sound. Derek sucks him right down, drags back, all while Stiles' comes and comes.

When the white noise in his brain stops, when the pulsing spasms ease, Stiles blinks up at the ceiling. This is one of the few top story rooms in the house that has a ceiling, Stiles thinks it might be the only one. What once may have been white is almost black with damp or soot or both. "We haven't even kissed," he says, and he's sure that there's something better he could have said, but at least he's fairly sure he's not brain damaged.

"True." Derek's voice is disembodied, but there's movement and then his face comes into Stiles' view. Derek's smiling.

"That's weird." Stiles isn't quite sure whether he's talking about the smile or the fact they haven't kissed, yet right now, Derek has Stiles' come in his mouth.

Derek puts his arm over Stiles, comes down close. Lips only inches away, he says, "Can I kiss you?"

"Ungh," Stiles says, which of course means yes, and Derek first drags his tongue across Stiles' bottom lip and then teases his mouth open. And it tastes salty and bitter but Stiles figures he can't really blame Derek for that, and it doesn't stop him anyway.

"Are you going to stop stealing my clothes?" Stiles says when they break apart, each of them rolling onto their backs to stare up at the ceiling.

"Sure," Derek says. "On one condition. I want your scent in my bed."

"Huh. So, I'd have to come back and refresh it from time to time?"

"Yeah."

"Sounds fair."

"We'll work on that plan of yours when you're ready."

Stiles pulls himself up on his elbow, looks down at Derek. "Little bit at a time." He slides his hand down Derek's torso, over his stomach, pushes his fingers into the waistband of Derek's black briefs. "We should totally start now."

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed reading, please hit the [Kudos ♥] button.
> 
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